


Lost Amongst My People

by ryssabeth



Series: Lost and Found [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Memory Loss, canon!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Amongst My People

They’re going to walk a gauntlet of corpses.

Death looks upon him with sorrowful eyes, running a hand over her close-cropped brown hair before lacing her fingers together in front of her. “For each of your friends,” she repeats, “you will need to give me each memory of them that you have. The dead ask a hefty price for being torn away from the afterlife. Are you  _sure_ , Grantaire?”

He nods, taking the first step down the line of his friends where Eponine lies.

Death sighs when Grantaire turns his head to her, standing at his side, and she cups his cheek with practiced tenderness.

He loses the memories of a friendly punch on the arm. He loses the memory of a friend to drink to unrequited love.

He takes another step forward.

The process is repeated.

He will no longer remember the weight of a child upon his shoulders. He will no longer remember the stirring of a particularly rousing poem. He loses the catalogue of diseases and their symptoms. He won’t miss the space where maths had been. He  _will_  miss the memory of a rousing brawl. He will miss the friendly embrace. He will lose the memory of egging on this man to the chagrin of their leader.

But when they make it to the end of the line of the dead, Grantaire has no idea what he has lost—he cannot remember it.

“Are you sure you wish to go through with this?” Death asks once more, gazing down upon the corpse of Enjolras.

( _“Grantaire you are incapable of believing,—“_ )

Sun and rebellion still bleed ( _no not that verb, not that_ ) from every pore, even in death.

( _“—of thinking,—“_ )

His muscles are already stiff with rigor.

( _“—of willing,—“_ )

And he is still as beautiful as he ever was.

( _“—of living,—“_ )

Grantaire hopes he always stays so lovely, if only so someone will have something to put on a page.

( _“—and of dying.”_ )

“You will see,” he says aloud. “You will see.” And then he turns to Death and he nods, for the final time, and her hand comes up to his cheek.

There are tears shimmering in her eyes. “You love them very much. You’re very brave.” ( _You love him very much_ , she means. And he does.)

“Hardly,” Grantaire replies. “I’m very stupid.”

Death closes her eyes—and he feels Enjolras slip through his fingers, a wisp of mist, drying before he even knows it had been there. He shuts his eyes then, following Death’s lead, and watches the afterimage of Enjolras disappear from the insides of his lids.

When he opens his eyes again, he is lost.

For what is a house, a city, a person without foundations?

-

Enjolras’ eyes snap open and he sucks in a desperate breath.

And he lives.

-

Grantaire wanders.

And he drinks.


End file.
